


The Nightjar

by hornblowerfic_archivist



Category: Hornblower (TV), Hornblower - C. S. Forester
Genre: Explicit Sexual Content, F/M, Graphic Sex, Horror, Romance
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2009-07-16
Updated: 2009-07-16
Packaged: 2018-05-23 15:35:39
Rating: Not Rated
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 7
Words: 18,462
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/6121141
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/hornblowerfic_archivist/pseuds/hornblowerfic_archivist
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Returning to his mother's home village to spend a festive All Hallows with his father's former best friend, Horatio comes close to discovering the disturbing truth behind the man's mysterious daughter.</p>
            </blockquote>





	1. Chapter 1

**Author's Note:**

> Note from Versaphile, the archivist: this story was originally archived at [Hornblowerfic.com](http://fanlore.org/wiki/Hornblowerfic.com). Deciding that it needed to have a more long-term home, I began importing its works to the AO3 as an Open Doors-approved project in January 2016. I e-mailed all creators about the move and posted announcements, but may not have reached everyone. If you are (or know) this creator, please contact the e-mail address on [Hornblowerfic.com collection profile](http://archiveofourown.org/collections/hornblowerfic/profile).

The cart jostled Horatio as they hit a slight ditch in the tightly compacted dirt road, a rut created from the wheels of many carriages following the same path for centuries, now petrified into the route. Stephen Hornblower shot his son a sideways glance, aware of his discomfort as keenly as he was aware of his own. Neither complained however, despite the awkward look they exchanged: Farmer Hammett’s, or Ham as he was known in these parts, timely appearance had saved them the pricey cost of a cab.

Both men bore it stoically as Ham, always the busybody, caught them up on every event that the small borough of Providence had gone through since last the Hornblower family, accompanied then by Horatio’s late mother, Catherine, had visited. The occurrences ranged from the declining sheep trade to a series of murders that had taken place in and around the village some years back. Stephen shuddered slightly, adjusting his coat as if it and the crisp autumn air were the cause for his involuntary action. In truth, he remembered something Catherine had told him not so long back, that the elders had taken to saying that ‘the dead don’t stay buried in Providence’ because of a series of ghastly grave robberies that had happened in the area.

“T’weren’t right,” Ham drawled on as Horatio noted that they were now in a thin spreading of woodland, drawing close to town. The trees danced with color: brilliant reds, oranges, yellows and browns as the brittle leaves clung to their branches, rattling in the cool breeze like the sound of song birds rustling in their eaves though he knew that such creatures would be scarce at this time of year; it was a weary sound, like the dead stirring. “All them girls, and so far from the city too! They ‘ung a man fer it, a foreigner; always was the quiet type but I woulda never pegged ther man fer killin’.”

The woods opened into sprawling fields, solitary scarecrows standing alone against the wind. The harvest, as the country folk knew it, had come late: instead of August, the corn -the oats, the wheat and the barley- had not been ready to reap until September and, as always, had been a laborious task, being completed only weeks ago; it was now time for farmers to gather their crop for market and sell their livestock.

The Harvest Festival would take place in late October, as e’er, when the apples were ripe and the leaves had all but fallen. It was chiefly for the benefit of the city folk who visited their homes in Providence’s quaint patch of land only for such events as hunting and Christmastide. A harvest home, a celebration for the common folk of Providence to observe their hard work, their task accomplished, would be held according to tradition by prominent gentleman farmer, Tobias Faulkner, as All Hallowtide approached. Hallowe’en: a time of honoring souls departed, as well as entertainment for some of the more puckish amongst the village boys with its Devil’s night.

“To the Grange,” Stephen instructed Ham, anxious to leave the stink of the pig cart they were riding in the past tense. Danderknoll Grange: the cosy home that rested upon the land of Houghton Manor’s generous grounds. There, Dr. Stephen Hornblower had been told through letter, his old friend, Joseph Frank, had taken up residence. Stephen had not been back to his deceased wife’s home since she had passed on but he had not seen Frank, a fellow Oxford graduate and former physician, in some years and wished to become reacquainted.

It was with palpable surprise that they met a young woman at the Grange’s gates. “Hullo,” the pleasant, platinum haired lady called, waving her arm. She was a comely, handsome specimen of her gender, with large, soft eyes that turned from deep hazel to gilt brown in the golden sunlight, fair skin and full pink lips that seemed as if they must always carry a smile. Yet, Horatio sensed there were something amiss with her, despite her robustness; an illness perhaps?

“Welcome,” she grinned, her cheeks flushing with the exertion of meeting them halfway up the drive. “Good day, Ham,” she greeted and the farmer tipped his hat to her, mumbling something; Horatio got the distinct impression the older man was embarrassed. Not that he could blame him: a beauty such as this young woman’s was an arresting and formidable thing. She turned her gaze towards Horatio and he instantaneously felt the heat rise in his cheeks; what was he thinking of, a beauty so arresting?! Her face was too round, her nose too pert, her blonde hair too severe; he had seen much more well-favored and attractive women in London though they were no where near as radiant. No, no more inappropriate thoughts!

“And you must be the Hornblowers,” she said cheerfully. “Papa has told me much about you! Dr. Hornblower?” she inquired, offering her hand to Stephen.

“Er, um, yes,” he replied, conspicuously stunned. A daughter?! And one seemingly of Horatio’s age! Joseph had been keeping secrets, hadn’t he? Had that been why he had been abroad for so many years? Why he had given up doctoring? “Miss... Frank?” he said uncertainly.

“The very one,” she beamed. “Oh, excuse my manners,” she gasped, flushing a bit. “I am Miss Mary Frank. How do you do.” Stephen gave her gloved hand a small kiss as he introduced himself and then his son; Horatio took her hand and gave a stiff little bow, aware of how cold her fingers felt in his embrace, even within their fabric casing. Had she been waiting outside long? I send papa’s regrets that he is not here to meet you in my stead but he is busy at work in the cellar; he gets rather carried away sometimes. Do come in though, he will be joining us for dinner.”

Ham bid them good noonday and urged his cart onwards after helping the Hornblowers with their luggage; when Stephen asked that they be sent along to Rose Cottage, his wife’s childhood home, Mary told them, “Nonsense! You’ll stay here with us! Papa’s already had the rooms made up; I changed the linens myself,” she informed them merrily. She would hear no objection and would have carried their baggage herself had Stephen not put his foot down firmly on the issue.

Horatio’s eyes wandered, taking in the bright white exterior walls of the Grange, the brightly painted green shutters and stained wooden boarding. A dazzling flash of sunlight reflected upon metal flared in his sight and eased to a sharp glint as he noticed the bizarre contraption affixed to the roof top; it looked like a mangled, oversized weather vane, all jagged edges and points. “One of papa’s ‘devices,’” Mary explained with a warm smile. “You’ll find them all about. We’ve lightning storms regularly here in Providence, which I’m sure you’re aware of as papa told me you grew up here.”

“I grew up in London,” Horatio replied flatly, rendered somewhat uncomfortable by the girl’s easy intimacy and endearing conduct. She was standing very close to him as she guided them to the entrance and they trod indoors; he coughed as her hand brushed his and was sure that a man and a woman should only be in such close proximity in private. The thought made him redden further. “My mother was born here.”

“Ah, of course,” she commented as she assimilated the information, cursing once again the fact that she relied so heavily upon her papa for knowledge, most specifically of the outside world, of people and of friends. It could get so lonely sometimes, the isolation, the estrangement, the solitude she had abided, locked away with her books and only papa to talk with. But she would not have to suffer much longer. She chased the morbid thought away and continued on jovially, if somewhat less conviction than before.

“Well, papa claims that... contraption will stop the lightning. No,” she said thoughtfully, biting the corner of her bottom lip, “no, it’s something more like the rods will collect the lightning, harness it for energy... He does the same with running water but he prefers the lightning; he says it may have the ability to rejuvenate. I don’t really understand half of what he speaks of, truth be told,” she admitted bashfully.

The inner rooms, with their low ceilings and drawn curtains, of the bright, cozy homestead could not have differed from its exterior more: it was like a tomb inside with its close walls and drapes that seemed to soak up any bit of light that might try to escape onto the patterned carpet and wainscoted walls. Every device that could be used for heating was and, while it felt good at first coming in from the chill autumn air, the atmosphere became quickly stifling and oppressive. Mary seemed not to notice even as she removed her cloak only to replace it with a woolen shawl; Horatio couldn’t help but notice how the russet color of her simple frock brought out her eyes as well as accentuating every curve quite nicely. He caught himself again, staring, though luckily she hadn’t noticed.

Stephen was overwhelmed by the fragrance that permeated the abode; it reminded him of potpourri filled pendants worn usually by ladies to mask the unpleasant odor of sickness or death. He sneezed discreetly, feeling as if the odor was seeping into his lungs like a liquid and suffocating him. Again, it seemed to bother Mary not a whit as she took their coats, informing them unabashedly, “We’ve no butler, nor a housewoman, so I’ll have to do. I see you’ve no valet,” she remarked airily though her tone was anything but condescending, “so just ask if you need anything. Your bedrooms are just up the stairs to your left, the second and last doors down the west corridor. Shall I show you?” she asked pleasantly, clapping her hands together.

“I’m an old man,” Doctor Hornblower smiled and though he made himself look an amiable older gent, Horatio could see the cunning in his father’s eyes, something they were said to have shared; perhaps that was how he was able to so easily recognize it in the elder male. “I think I’ll have a rest before dinner; you can knock me up when it’s ready. But that’s no reason that the young should not enjoy themselves. Go,” he grinned and now Horatio was sure he detected a smirk on his pater’s lips, “you show my son around.”

Horatio gave him a curt bow of the head; he knew his father would have cared for him to have been more sociable, though Stephen himself was something of a recluse, and be it female companionship, all the better. He had quite a few lady admirers, as it turned out, and it was not as though Horatio disliked the attention; in fact, he was quite vain in a way, exulting in the notion that he was fancied by such comely lasses. And, naturally, there was the immensely agreeable sensation of the act of physical love, which he found not only to be satisfying but to be quite healthy as well; though whores provided such services, he had little use for them and found them, on the whole, distasteful.

Most of the girls he made acquaintance with were too silly for his liking, or too serious about the institution of wedlock. Was it asking the impossible to meet a miss whose company he enjoyed sharing, whom he could speak with and make love to with equal zeal? That said, he could have imagined worse things than spending time in Miss Frank’s companionship, especially reflecting upon her wisdom in leading him first to the library, filled from floor to ceiling with untidy stacks of ancient tomes. “I knew you’d like it,” she smiled, subdued.

On her behalf, she was finding it increasingly laborious to speak to him in the comfortable fashion in which she had started; for most of her life she had only ever had her papa to speak with and, at first, she had approached the Hornblowers the only way she knew how: as if she were addressing Joseph Frank but the incisive differences were making themselves known. Particularly with Horatio. She’d read many texts that had referred to what she was experiencing, from the ever-popular Fanny Hill and the rather loathsome rantings of a French Marquis to her father’s medical publications, which she read in the original Latin, though none could inform her as to why she felt clumsy around him or why she blushed when she felt his gaze fall upon her.

A chemical reaction designed to urge on the propagation of the species, one of them had asserted and yet the less reputable printings declared it the pursuit of the paramount of sexual delectations; Mary wasn’t sure either was truly correct. She found him delightful to look at, interesting to converse with even as the sidelong glances he shot at her made the blood rush through her veins and her heart thrill with a whooping thump. Desire? Love? Attraction; she remembered that word and it seemed suitable. She giggled a little when Horatio discovered one of the racier verses amongst the piles and, clearing his throat nervously, he fumbled with it and set it back down rapidly as if he had discovered it was made of hot coals.

“What’s this?” he asked, coming across a tall rounded shape shrouded in a royal blue velvet cloth. He touched it and pulled his hand away as he heard and felt something stir, agitated, inside. Mary laughed at him once more, a sound he was finding more and more unnerving.

“My pet,” she told him, lifting the fabric drape; a little, dark bird fluttered within the confines of a spacious, gilded cage. “He’s a bit cranky because you’ve woken him up; he’s normally nocturnal. I’ve named him Victor, he’s a nightjar.” The disquieted animal made a kind of eerie whirring noise and Horatio recognized it instantly upon hearing it; he had overheard its song the night his mother had passed away.

“It’s a...” he began, clearing his throat another time.

“Lich bird: a corpse bird, yes,” Mary said gazing on the creature fondly. “An unusual choice, I’m sure you’re thinking. It was my papa’s. I was still new to this world when I first heard its unique call from behind the window glass; the first words I spoke, I asked him ‘what is that?’ He found it in one of his volumes, of course, and showed me, but every night after I would go to that window and wait for it, to listen to it again. After a week of me doing so, he brought to me Victor. The first one died for I didn’t know how to care for it properly but I learned. It gets lonesome...”

Horatio would never hear what she was about to confess for the clock in the hall struck four and Mary threw her arms up, declaring that she had no idea that it had gotten so late and that she must attend to dinner. She instructed Horatio to retrieve his father whilst she saw to the food and, pausing in the doorway as if to make sure he did what he was told, she caught him staring at her, those eyes like warm cocoa burrowing into her; she became lightheaded. Without another word, she ran from the room, feeling the hot moisture collect between her thighs.

*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*

As usual, Joseph lost all track of time and consequently missed dinner but his inquisitive and nagging stomach had him up from the cellar and roaming to the dining quarters by supper time. Horatio had just begun to think that the man didn’t really exist at all, he was some sort of figment of their collective imaginations when, lo, like a spirit, he appeared. And like a spirit he was: tall and slender almost to the point of gauntness, his skin was wan and ashen, his thin and graying hair barely covering a pallid pate. He smiled widely when he noticed the Hornblowers, taking first Stephen’s hand in a firm grip and then his body in a fond embrace, patting his old friend on the back.

He was absolutely taken by Horatio, commenting cheerfully upon the younger man’s likeness to his departed mother more than once as well as complimenting him for bearing his father’s intelligence. Mary seemed pleased at how well they were getting on; maybe seeing his dear companion from youth would help wrench him from this melancholia he’d been sinking into lately.

She knew herself to be the source of his depression and couldn’t help but feel guilty for it, though it was not left to her, nor should it be to any mortal, in the end; she had argued that with him many times. But he had been good to her, as patient, as affectionate as a real father would have been; but she knew he wanted something more from her, something she could not grasp nor give him however hard she tried and such was his sadness. And now she was failing. She was a disappointment to him, she knew this. She gave him a supportive yet moderate smile as she served him a plate of warmed up dinner whilst she provided the Hornblowers with smaller meals and desserts.

She leant across the table to retrieve an empty mug and, as she refilled it with warm cider, her shawl slipped from her shoulder; bowed over before him, her sizable, fair bosom was revealed to Horatio in what was a good deal of its glory. The two soft mounds of her breasts nearly tumbled out the discreet neckline of her frock like cream boiling over and Horatio was suddenly lost in the very vivid fantasy of touching the voluptuous swells, pressing his mouth to them, burying his face in the sweet valley between them as he tasted her smooth flesh. His luscious mouth, shapely lips, kissing as his slender fingers worked at the fastenings of the gown enough to lower it, revealing the taut, rosy nubs at the peak of each scrumptious hillock. How they would heave with every panting breath she took...

Mary pulled the shawl back up over her chest and Horatio coughed loudly in embarrassment; he couldn’t tell from her enigmatic smile whether or not she had noticed his heated, unseemly glare though he wasn’t sure how she could have missed it.

He reached to refocus his attention back onto the two elder gentlemen in his company, his breeches perhaps growing a little tighter than he would have cared for; he only hoped his arousal wasn’t too obvious straining against his trousers when he stood. “You were a Fellow of the College, Joseph,” his father was saying, shaking his head in disbelief. “I just don’t understand why you would give up so much prestige--you were damned well considered one of the best physicians in Portsmouth!--for surgery!”

“There was a necessity,” Joseph answered vaguely, glancing towards Mary who refused to return the look. “And, Stephen, if you had only seen the anatomy demonstration I attended in Edinburgh; the things that can be learned, the potential that is there! Physicians, they believe they can learn everything they need to know from antiquated texts written in dead languages! There is still so much to be discovered, so much possibility, in the human body.”

Stephen laughed. “You always were progressive, Joseph, but this...this goes beyond you.” And what of Mary? Doctor Hornblower had a great many questions to ask of his old acquaintance regarding his rather shocking choices of the past dozen years but not here, not in front of the younger set.

Frank gently pulled Mary aside and asked her to fetch more cider from the keg in the larder; Ham had just delivered a new batch this morning courtesy of his master, Tobias Faulkner. She nodded, placing a hand on his shoulder; he never really was very tactful. She knew what of he was ready to speak of her in her absence; what he would tell them was the mystery. “She’s dying,” he said quietly once she had left the room. “Her body is strong but her heart--I believe it to be her heart--is failing her. She has had other troubles: liver, lungs; I have been able to help her with what I have learned! But now, no matter how I try, she is dying.”

The words sank into Horatio’s mind like the sickly, cold fingers of dreadful understanding; he reconciled the realization with the sensation he had about Mary earlier, that she was ill despite the glowing health in her cheeks. It sounded as if she’d been afflicted all her life; it would explain her sheltered childhood, certainly. He was surprised at the passion with which he did not want a woman like Mary to leave this world, so full of life and light. He didn’t pity her, but he felt a sadness for her and those who knew her; it seemed as if it was slowly enfeebling, debilitating Mr. Frank.

He went to sleep that night with the dire knowledge of her impending demise hanging over his head like a black cloud, twisting his stomach into knots. It was so quiet, he observed as he lay in bed, so unlike the bustle of London, the activity of Portsmouth. His room was so isolated at the end of the corridor that every sound, even the smallest, provoked a response, from the creaking of a floorboard in the distance to the inevitable rumbling of the tumultuous autumnal night sky. The flash of lightning made bizarre and frightening silhouettes through the barren tree branches like bony fingers, casting the shadows through the lace curtains onto the bare wooden floor.

He thought of Mary: if she was asleep, safe and sound, in her bed, or if she was in that intriguingly mysterious sanctuary of a cellar with Frank, working with him on his contraptions. He considered again how unfair it was for such a handsome, personable girl to be taken so soon, and without the chance to really be alive.

He found himself ashamedly remembering the glimpse he had had of her sonsy body: those stunning breasts; soft as his feathered pillows, he reckoned. Damn, he’d been at sea for far too long, and meeting up with his father as soon as the Indefatigable had docked in Portsmouth had rather inhibited his plans to relieve the tension growing in his nethers with an amiable girl of Archie’s familiarity; neither a harlot nor a girl of ill-repute, she was a willing lass looking for a good time and enamored of service men. He was glad he hadn’t engaged her in the act, to be truthful, though the physical benefits would have been unmistakable. Now he lay in an empty bed with a magnificent cockstand growing between his legs.

He’d no idea how sound would carry, if his separation from the rest of the house through largely empty hallways would carry the noises of his self-satisfaction like an echo or the unnaturally close darkness and desolated feeling of the rooms of the Grange would dampen them, and so he smothered his face in his bed pillow, stifling his savage grunts as his fist grasped and wrung his raging horn, pumping it with his fist as he burrowed his groin into the mattress. Mary’s thighs would be as exquisite and plush as her breasts, yielding to his penetrations in sweet surrender, her buxom curves in opposition to his lean angles. He spent with a shuddering groan, gritting his teeth as he unleashed his orgasm. 'Oh shite,' he looked down, horrified at the wetness on the sheets; Mary would change the linens herself!


	2. Chapter 2

The harvest sun was large and golden in the azure sky, nary a cloud in sight to block its gilded rays from filtering through the colored leaves onto the grounds of the Faulkner’s farm; it provided a bit of warmth against the refreshingly chill breeze. Horatio breathed deeply the scent of the festival, of cider and the American pumpkin, of hay and ale; his father had been correct: this was an agreeable distraction. There were shouts of joy encircling him as the people of the village enjoyed games such as penny tossing and children ran foot races. It would be a perfect noonday...if only Mary had been at his side.  
  
His father always accused him of finding something in everything to brood over and perhaps that was exactly what Horatio was doing but he felt a distinct stab of jealousy when he looked towards the stable where the contestants of the horse race were readying themselves, where Mary stood with a grin on her beautiful mouth talking with Faulkner himself. Horatio hadn’t imagined the proprietor of the farmstead to be such a young man, nor that he would be crisply well-favored of face and carry so much of Mary’s attention; every time she laughed at some unheard comment of his, Horatio felt a little turn of envy.  
  
Frank made a startling appearance, looking woefully wan in the golden sunlight as he approached Faulkner and his daughter, raising a flagon of cider in salute. He smiled and it seemed an ugly thing to Horatio, not at all good humored or mirthful. Tobias Faulkner welcomed the new arrival cheerfully, only confirming Horatio’s suspicions that Frank had plans for his offspring and the gentleman farmer; he supposed he knew exactly what those plans were but he could never have guessed for true, not given a hundred years. With a grin, Mary began to depart their company as if she had been dismissed; Horatio felt the bite of resentment once more when Tobias took her gloved hand in his and kissed it in a rather personal fashion.  
  
He watched as Faulkner and Frank conversed for a moment, observing as their expressions become serious, concerned; there was a hint of anger on Faulkner’s features as his eyes followed Mary. He was so intent on examining the two men that he altogether missed Mary’s approach; she sneaked up behind him, wrapping her hands around the trunk of the tree Horatio was leaning against, his arms crossed in vexation.  
  
“Boo!” she cried, surprising him and giggling at his stunned expression. “I thought that was you I saw skulking about here!” She tipped her chin towards the stable. “Won’t you join the race?”  
  
Horatio flushed, irritated. “I don’t ride,” he admitted bitterly, inspecting Faulkner and his ease as he lifted himself into the saddle of his black stallion, though she did or chose not to notice the biting tone of his voice or his aloof glare.  
  
“Mmm, I suppose you wouldn’t, being in the navy,” she told him brightly; again, there was no patronization in her words. He was difficult, complex; she couldn’t quite grasp understanding of her attraction to him or his response. When she spoke with Joseph, he did not dodge and twirl as if they were engaged in dance instead of conversation; he was always open, always genuine. Toby was just too obvious for words: he saw in his sights the tantalizing prospect of an alluring wife with a generous dower; he was unaware that Frank would never allow such a thing to pass though the elder man led him along with hints and indications he never intended to fulfill. Horatio hid, but not like a child, no; he guarded himself well in silence as she did in words.  
  
“I was going to give you my handkerchief,” she informed him shyly. “For luck,” she explained, not quite able to meet his gaze; instead, her eyes fell to her fingers picking at the bark of the tree, the color of which only reminding her of the smoldering brown of his stare. “Old fashioned, I know,” she grinned.  
  
Horatio was at a loss for words; he had presumed that she had given her favor to Faulkner. “It must be terribly exciting, being at sea!” she continued enthusiastically. Anywhere save for this quiet little borough, she thought, anywhere but her own ornamented cage at the Grange. “I’ve read about it extensively,” she assured him, adding only to herself: ‘Only since last night,’ though it was the thought that truly mattered. She’d found an unmistakably large amount of romantic fiction centered around men of His Royal Majesty’s service; only a little while ago, she would have denounced it as utter drivel, now she was coming to comprehend some of the things she had read.  
  
“It is...a good career,” he responded, chiding himself with not being able to think of an even duller answer. He was looking at her now, her remarkable charm and coy, playful timidity almost pulling a smile from his lips; his dark mood was dissipating quickly.  
  
“I wouldn’t look now,” she said in a conspiring whisper as she bit her lip demurely, “but I think more than half the young ladies of the town are taken by your uniform.” That did inspire a bashful smile and a slight blush upon his cheeks; she wondered if he knew that most were looking at the beautiful man with soft chestnut curls, eyes like luscious pools and full, delectable lips in the livery not the apparel itself.  
  
“Are you?” he inquired boldly, moving in closer to her. There was a catch in her breath as her body seemed to angle towards him of its own accord. Was he teasing her? She was making progress! She laughed giddily, supposing that if he didn’t know the answer by now, he was most likely blind or a fool. Impulsively, she tagged his arm and challenged him to a foot race, lifting her skirts before Horatio had time to protest and taking off into the thinly wooded area nearby. “Wait, Mary!” he cried out apprehensively; while part of him was fearful of her health, the other thrilled, stimulating his blood as he gave chase.  
  
It was more a game of hide and seek, their destination seemingly changing at random as he caught blurry flashes of Mary’s rose-colored cloak, there for a moment and then gone, disappeared as if by magic behind a tree, around a corner. The soft crunch of the carpeting of dead or dying leaves echoes in the relative silence as they wander further and further from the festival, sounds carrying oddly in the eerily spectral autumn air.  
  
His fitness gave him the advantage, his long legs carrying him far distances with just a few strides. Growing weary, Mary swung herself out of view against the back of a tree trunk, trying to steady the aching breaths that left her lungs in shuddering gasps; her heart was racing.  
  
“Boo!” Horatio cried, jumping suddenly apparently out of nowhere to place one had upon the bark on either side of her, pining her there with a smug smirk upon his generous mouth; she squealed in delighted, unexpected surprise.  
  
“You...win,” she panted, smiling and Horatio’s playful temper instantly turned to anxiety for her well being. “Don’t,” she implored him as a frown touched his dark brow, “don’t look at me like that, please. I can almost take it from Joseph but not from you.” He started noticeably at her use of her father’s Christian name and she sighed; bugger, she wanted to tell him everything so desperately. “He’s not my real father,” she began, biting her lip. “He knew my mama, Emma, in Brussels, where he had been studying. When she passed on...” So much -too much- to explain! He nodded as if he understood but she knew he didn’t, would never.  
  
“Let me show you something?” she asked sportively and, when Horatio consented with an inclination of his head, she swept her cloak back, undoing the ties of her bonnet and lifting them so he could better view the long, thick pink scar that ran the length of the artery in her neck, up across her jaw and forked off around her ear. “I have them all over,” she explicated. “You see, I’ve been ill all my life. I know Joseph--my papa--told you: I’m perishing. It’s why he’s become a surgeon: this is what he’s done with that knowledge but it will not work this time. I’ve known this for quite some time. So, no tortured pathos. Promise?” He gestured his agreement reluctantly, aware suddenly of their closeness, of the mist of their breaths intermingling. He wanted to move away, to do what was proper but something--she--was keeping him rooted to the spot.  
  
“It’s quite unsightly, isn’t it?” she laughed breathlessly, running her gloved fingers along the cicatrice; Horatio shook his head vehemently.  
  
In amazement, he found himself sloping forward, puckering his lips as he pressed their blushing abundance to her flesh; she gasped and her skin prickled in ravishment as he kissed her along there, slowly, hotly. He throbbed at the taste of her against his tongue as he skirted the muscle along her skin; he seemed lost in a stupor of delectation, those beautiful breasts surging with sighs just below the place he was nuzzling her. Blood rushed to and solidified his groin, making it ache as it strained against his breeches; he angled his thighs away from her, abashed by his impropriety but unable to cease it!  
  
Her belly fluttered with butterflies as she closed her eyes and surrendered herself to the glorious sensation of his kisses; the chalice betwixt her thighs was pulsing, bedewed with her excitement. She tilted her head back, giving him more of the creamy curve of her neck to feast on and a quiet, whimpering groan escaped her gently parted lips. The sound snapped Horatio immediately back to reality, scandalized by the act he had just performed. Sexual arousal and the need for its release was no excuse to take advantage of a young lady, especially one of such quality as Mary!  
  
“I’m sorry,” he told her, mortified, furious with himself when she gave him a hurt little pout as if she hadn’t wanted him to discontinue his amorous ministrations. “I am so very sorry!”  
  
He looked away, having to wrench himself from the warmth of her proximity, and was aware for the first time of his surroundings. An old, dilapidated mill sat decaying in the near distance, a small stream trickling lazily over a thin ditch of smooth pebbles that had once been a river of some size. He concentrated on the most mundane thing he could, trying to halt the thrumming in his veins: the remarkable architecture of the diminutive building with its gentle slopes, graceful curves...no, perhaps architecture wasn’t a good idea after all!  
  
“We’re at the edge of the Duke and Duchess of Granby’s estate,” she told him softly, pointing to a path not far from where they stood. “The riders will be coming around that bend soon.” And so they did, only moments after she had spoken he could see the first approaching; it was Faulkner, shooting daggers with his eyes when he spied the two of them. Horatio once again felt both a surge of covetousness and of shame at being caught out. “It’s not what you think, between Toby and I,” she said, touching Horatio’s arm as other participants of the race passed them. “He would like it to be but I...” She leaned closer to Horatio and when he refused to respond, she licked her lips and suggested, “We should be getting back now. I believe the pie baking competition should be starting just about now and Mrs. Hammett’s are not to be missed.”  
  
He nodded and took her hand, leading her back to the festival like she were a child, lost in the wood. He wouldn’t resist her tonight, she was determined he not deny the emotions they were both so undeniably experiencing.


	3. Chapter 3

There was a small knock on Horatio’s bed chamber door; at first he couldn’t even be sure he had heard it and that it wasn’t just the wind, which had picked up considerably after nightfall, causing one of the barren branches to rap against his window glass. He was wide awake, trying to center his attention on a book he had borrowed from the over-crowded library on some unremarkable subject while really his mind lingered on thoughts of Mary as his loins began to stir to his delight and discomfort once again. He feigned sleep, hoping that whoever it was would leave if they believed they had disturbed him from slumber. He opened the portal a crack and caught his breath when he spied Mary standing on the other side, trying to peek in.

“I’ve brought you extra blankets,” she told him, holding the folded woolen coverlets wrapped him her pale arms up for him to see. “There’s going to be a frost tonight, I could smell it on the air; just wanted to make sure you were warm enough. I know the Grange can be absolutely dreadful sometimes!” She wanted to talk, he could tell but, given his state of undress--he wore only his nightshirt--the formidable erection throbbing between his thighs and the fact that he utterly did not wish to speak of his misconduct this afternoon, allowing her a chat was not an option.

He hemmed and hawed, trying to circumvent her verbal attempts at gaining entrance but she was persistent and, he realized, she would probably only leave once she’d satisfied herself by placing the blankets upon his bed herself; perhaps then he would be able to usher her out quickly and get on with the rest of the dark night. She breezed in determinedly, almost thrusting the door in his face as she gusted in, heading straight for his mattress. A jolt ran through his veins like lightning when he realized she wore only the barest of thin muslin chemises, her pink flesh clearly visible through the gauzy white fabric. His eyes went straight to the curve of her round bottom as she bent over his bedstead; he could just see a hint of the soft platinum down between her legs. He went as hard as iron envisioning its smell, its taste; this was not going well!

She smoothed the wool blanket with her hand, bending further over the feathered tick and exposing herself further as her proud, round bottom bounced up into the air; Horatio’s breath shuddered from him, the thought of positioning himself between those unresisting thigh, grasping her soft, ample waist as he shed the very tenuous layer of clothing between them. Too much fucking time at sea and not enough time at sea fucki...He gasped, trying to exhale steadily. No, he would rid himself of this once and for all! He would ask her to leave and that would be the end of it; no more guilty visions of despoiling a fine woman of such superiority to himself and his own base lecherousness.

He was just about to speak, to banish her, when a loud crash broke the electric silence of the wild night, rattling the window glass. Horatio rushed over to gaze out upon the deceptively passive blackness towards town with a frown. Mary chuckled dismissively as she informed him, “Devil’s night; you’ll be hearing a lot before morning. The boys of the village like to scare the cows, unleash the sheep, break a window hear or there; mostly harmless things, not nearly as wicked as they’d like to think.” And not nearly as wicked, she considered, as she hungered to be.

She stood, straightening, and noticed how Horatio now declined to gaze upon her without the bedding protectively obstructing her front, the plentiful bosom she knew beguiled his attention, the feathered blonde fur that gathered below her belly; were these not the things that enticed men, that lured them into a girl’s arms?

Perchance she had deucedly overestimated his attraction to her; did he like his female friends shorter, more slender perhaps? Did he prefer boys? No, he didn’t seem like the type. The thought was rather dismaying nonetheless, she discovered, and therein she discovered the diversity between fondness and passion; though she was certain she could not have come to love him utterly and altogether over the space of merely two days but nor was it a superficial fancy, she was sure. The craving for Horatio to experience the same, to possibly feel that he could be romantically inclined towards her, was devastating.

Well, bollocks to moping around and thinking on it! If she was to do this, she might as well get it over with! She strode purposefully to the small table where his decanter of whiskey sat and poured him a glass, offering the half-filled tumbler to him, her chin defiantly jutting upwards as she reached out her arm. He looked first at the object in her hand and, with a frown, moved his uncomprehending stare to her face. “Go on,” she urged, her courage buckling somewhat under the weight of his burning glare. “If you cannot even look upon me as I am now, I believe you might need the entire thing to hear what I have to propose.”

Horatio swallowed hard; he had an idea of where this was leading. Was she trying to seduce him? He wanted to laugh if not for the ache that trembled throughout his body. Renouncing her naive and clumsy attempts without causing her distress was going to be demanding; he wanted to be merciful but he knew he would hurt her with his reproof. “Mary,” he began quietly, shaking his head as he struggled for words. His throat went dry as she undid the lacings at her breast and her nightdress fell away, catching briefly on the taut pink tips of her plush bosom as it floated to the floor like a phantom.

“At least hear me out,” she pleaded so tenderly it made him teem with longing; she’d have him groveling for it, for her, after no time. “I know what you would say about the indecency, the insult to me and my father, who is also your host. I have told you, Horatio, that I am dying, my time is not long; perhaps weeks, perhaps only days are left for me. I have not known the pleasures of lying with a man and now am unlikely to ever...”

“Please, stop,” he begged of her, shutting his eyes tightly as he kneeled and retrieved her chemise, trying to hand it back to her; her scent was thick in his mouth and nose. “What you would ask of me, I cannot do! You would ask me to treat you no better than a strumpet and I will not! Surely other men, they would take advantage of the situation but I hold too much esteem for you and I am not entirely sure my own motivation would be honorable...”

“So you do want me?! You are noble indeed, sir; I see that I have not misjudged you,” she smiled gently. “You are a true gentleman, Horatio Hornblower, unlike the few I have known, one that I believe, given proper time, I would take to loving very dearly. But I am not to know true love, fate has intervened as she is likely to do. I am not weak.”

“I know you are not,” he said emphatically, allowing her to see the shimmering mist that had formed along the rim of his deep, lucid eyes. She had a stronger character and soul than he had ever imagined any single woman to have and rivaled only Archie for her spirit; he thought that maybe he could have loved her as well. Yes, he yearned for her carnally for she was beautiful in his eyes, and to replete his sensual thirsts upon her, he could think of nothing more satisfying but it was her intellect that aroused him to the point of intoxication; she was his equal. “But you are ill,” he rationalized, fighting against his own rebellious logicality that was telling him that his luxuria and the wish to give into it was acceptable, admirable in this matter. “I could easily injure you, cause you pain.”

“I have known pain, Horatio,” she informed him, moving ever so closer even as he still assayed to avert his eyes from the bare flesh on display before him. She took his hand in hers, placed it on her hip, his long, lean fingers curling around her skin like tendrils; she was so cold. He wanted nothing more than to take her into his arms and warm her. “Intimately. Occasionally, it has been the only sensation that allowed me the knowledge that I was still alive. I don’t want to know pain anymore, Horatio; I want to know pleasure. From you.” He collapsed to his knees, encircling her hips with his arms and pressing his cheek to the soft rise of her stomach.

“I cannot give you love,” came his final protest, even though he knew he was lost; she was quivering in his embrace, her body exquisitely surrendering to him, the power he held over her. “Not as you rightfully deserve.”

“Can you not?” she whispered huskily. “I chose you for I have a heart to for you. Would it be, do you think, that I could not have had Toby with less the fuss and less the emotion?” She ran her hand through his chestnut curls, surprised at the silkiness of the hair and how it stimulated her touch. “I want you, Horatio. I want you.”

There was a pause, silence, as she gazed down at him on the verge of shedding tears as her platinum hair cascaded down her buxom flesh, convinced he would, even now, turn her away. He sighed deeply; she could feel his hot breath titillate her tummy. “Say that again,” he commanded and, at first, she thought she had misunderstood. “Say it again,” he demanded throatily, tilting his head upwards to captivate her smoky gaze; his controlling tone sent a thrill throughout her. The words she’d spoken hadn’t been glib, apparent or purely ruttish: her statement was completely sincere, setting Horatio aflame; he’d never been witness to such an earnest, moving proclamation of lustfulness in his life.

“I want you,” she told him breathlessly and, with that, the last of his defenses melted away. He grinned roguishly and stood. A kiss upon the lips was the most intimate act, to Horatio’s mind, of love, of sexual relations, and he avoided it normally, wanting not to mock such warmth as existed in nature. With that knowledge, he slipped his hands beneath the glossy fall of her blonde tresses and pressed his mouth to hers, passionately prying her lips apart with his tongue so the muscle could caress the rough velvet expanse of her own. He took his time, savoring her slowly, hotly. His voluptuous lips consumed hers, sucking upon the dusky petals.

His cockstand pressed insistently in to tummy, pulling the rough linen of his nightshirt tight like a tent stand as he leisurely stroked and devoured her mouth. As she wrapped her arms about his neck in submission, a hard object unceremoniously bumped the back of his head and they both laughed, realizing she still held the drinking glass of whiskey. “I don’t think I’ll be needing this,” he leered, taking it from her.

“For endurance then,” she teased, sampling a small mouthful of the strong liquid within and pulling a displeased face; he chuckled when she gave a little surprised cough at the liquor’s potency. Her voice was strained when she spoke again, “Instead of courage. How can you drink this?” she inquired, examining the crystal tumbler.

“Like this,” he told her and tipped the contents fully betwixt her lips. “Don’t swallow!” he warned her as once again he enfolded her in his grasp and set his mouth to hers once more. At his own repose, he sipped it from her amorously. Horatio had never been an abstainer but he hadn’t exactly been a toper either; he recognized its social value in certain affairs but had never really taken to the activity for recreation. He could have gotten used to this kind of imbibing, however. And then, of course, there were other pleasures just waiting to be had...

Softly urging her towards the bed, he sat upon the edge and took her into his lap, attempting to move his raging erection aside so she could curl up on the tops of his muscular thighs. The smooth skin of her plush breasts fit almost perfectly into his eager palms, his long fingers grasping at the sumptuous flesh as he pressed his face between the two luxurious swells.

Moaning, she squirmed against him, causing him to grow unmerciful hard as he lived out his imagined exoticism of unhurriedly feasting upon her bosoms; his mouth was hot, wet as his lips pulled at the rosy buds at her nipples center, suckling greedily as only a grown man could have appetite to do. She smelled delectably fresh, clean, like the homemade soap that sat on his wash-hand stand as well as the spiced apple butter she had served with supper as he nuzzled her supple flesh, nestling his mouth into the pliant mounds.

His thick tongue lapped at the perfectly pink aureole that wreathed the tight summits, tickling the solid nubs with the tip. He squeezed, kissed, snuggled into her scrumptious breasts just as he had dreamed, nourishing his wanton craving as he never thought possible. He drew in her blissful moans, feeding upon the little gasps and sighs with feverish vigor.

Wrapping one arm behind her knees and the other across her shoulders, he placed her on the bed, spread her before him like a banquet as he get to his feet, gathering his nightshirt in his fist at the back of his neck and tugging it up over his head. Mary felt the air rush from her lungs as she beheld him in all of his naked glory; he put Joseph’s anatomy books to shame. Despite his narrow frame, he was adorned with powerfully corded sinew that moved beneath his tanned skin like the rippling of water. Dark brown fur grew abundantly about his groin, trickling from his navel in a steady and every thickening line across his brawny, flat stomach. His manhood sprang from the coarse nest, longer than she ever could have envisioned and crowned with a generous, engorged head. His abundant, heavy stones nestled in back of the shaft, dusted themselves in the dense hair.

Remembering something particularly licentious she had read and feeling quite promiscuous herself at the moment, she demonstrated for him exactly what she wished to do to the upright phallus, she placed her finger between her lips, at first suckling the tip and then thrusting it rhythmically in and out, curling her tongue about the suggestive digit. She’d do it, too, Horatio had no doubt; he remembered the blue prose he had accidentally come upon in the library and considered the other texts the crowded place most likely held and what she must have learned from them!

A growl formed at the back of his throat as he joined her upon the mattress, laying half atop her, half upon his side next to her. She had been entirely frank in telling him that she was covered all around in those fat scars but they did not disgust him, she could never disgust him; instead, as they were a unique part of her, he found them tempting. He ran his fingers along their uneven lines, around her hips, across her belly, running down her thighs to her knees, he caressed their jagged paths, planting kisses upon some of the more drastic ones. “You are radiant,” he told her simply, wishing he did not lack Archie’s sense of poetic articulation and sociability, that he could tell her that he found her to be the most delicious, endearing creature he e’er had the fortune to lay eyes upon.

And yet, he also sensed a freedom he had never experienced before in the intimate company of a woman; party, he knew guiltily, because their time together would be short and hers would discontinue altogether. Any secrets he confided, any proclamations he may make as to his churning sentiment or amative cravings would stay between them forever. It made him adventuresome, dauntless, cocksure, so to speak.

There was a deed he rarely performed though it gave to him much exhilaration to do so: the act of privately tasting a woman; it’s not as if he didn’t greatly enjoy it, but, with doxies, it always seemed unhygienic and with others, they had not aroused him to the degree that he thirsted to savor her on his tongue. But Mary had compelled him far past anything he’d ever felt previously and he wanted to dine upon her as greatly as he desired her to feel the pleasance of it.

Parting the plump, pouty lips of her lovely maiden slit, he buried his face between her unresisting thighs and licked up the nectarous spending that deluged her in her excitement with ecstatic transport from the swollen cleft, even as his tongue, so full that it filled her silken folds, found its way further till it tickled her sensitive clitoris. She was scrumptious, reminding him of the fresh sea breeze and so susceptible to his ministrations. She was panting, crying out wordless pledges of devotion and ravishment; oh but she had never dreamed of pleasure so poignant as he glutted himself on her creamy libations.

Before she knew what had come over her, she was shuddering as sensation broke over her in a wave of uncoiled rapture. “Oh, Horatio,” she sobbed, his marvelously silky curls tickling the delicate flesh of her thighs and quivering stomach. “That was tremendous! I can’t help it, Horatio, I am so very in love with you!” she declared, mewling like a kitten. He wanted to crow lecherously, affirming her first orgasm as his even as he cradled her and conceded his powerful feelings for her.

He supped the shimmering wetness from her cheeks, his heart full to bursting, his body mad with lust, kissing her as he prepared his grand priapus to seize possession of her mount. Capturing her mouth, he silently apologized for the pain he was about to cause her virgin defenses and lunged his tool into her furrow, conquering of her maiden channel with one thrust.

“Oh!” she wept, biting her lip as he filled her fleshed virtue with two severe plunges of his eager prick; he felt himself throbbing in ownership of her inner most charms.

He reached so far inside of her, caressed the tight walls of her sheath with his copious girth, what little pain there was abated rapidly as pleasure vanquished her. He kissed her mouth until he was sure that she had adjusted to his assault, then using his lips to bring tingling entrancement to her tender breasts. She was adrift in an ocean of gratification, her senses a cloudburst of ecstasy; warmth and color flooded her as the pressure inside of her erupted, enveloping her like spring rain against her naked flesh, making her lethargic yet remaining stimulated. He was unrelenting, demandingly plumbing her depths even as his hold remained so affectionate, so worshipful. She could read the joy on his own features, the intense and passionate gaze of his fathomless chocolate eyes burrowing into her deeper than his cock, searing and branding her very soul.

How richly she let down her milk when the throes of pleasure dominated her, smothering his masculinity in her moist grip as his cock seemed to revel in her slickness as he drove in and out with all of his manful strength until he felt precious release upon him at last. The moment of crisis would grip both of them almost simultaneously as they cherished tension that had built within them was released and Horatio unloosed the pearly liquid of his shot; he filled her again and again, pumping his seed deep within her.

He was grinning as he gathered her in his embrace, kissing her shoulder and then her mouth, brushing the sweat dampened platinum locks from her forehead as he placed his lips there too. He placed his hand on her breast, over her racing heart, his gaze suddenly clouding over with concern.

“I’m well, Horatio,” she assured him, stretching languorously. “I’m more than well, I am superb!”

He lovingly enfolded her in one of the wondrously soft blankets she had had the foresight to bring with her to his room and was happy to note that her skin was, for the first time since he had met her, glowing with warmth. She truly was radiant, glorious. She understood what he did not say, his silence meaning so much more to her than an empty uttered endearments of tenderness ever could.

“Horatio,” she murmured against his chest as she snuggled into him, “remember--before--when I first glimpsed you naked and I...expressed my desire to...do something...” He chuckled; how could a man forget that? He stared at her, dumbfounded, as she disappeared beneath the coverlet and he felt the burning, moist clasp of her mouth close around his manhood as it quickly renewed its energy and stiffness. Rolling onto his back, he allowed his eyes to drift closed and a barbarous groan to escape him, the sensory perception of her mouth ravening him drove him into a frenzy.


	4. Chapter 4

The small bedroom still clung to the fragile tendrils of warmth emanating from the hearth though the fire there had been burnt to only soft glowing embers hours ago. The pale, dawning light beyond the window’s gape was not yet bright enough to contend with the crimson incandescence of the dying ash and still Horatio could see in the gloom of early morn the invitingly fair, milky flesh of the body that laid beside him as if it gave off a kind of luminescence in the thin hours before dayspring.

Like the chamber, she too seemed to hold tight to the last of the fading heat, reminding Horatio for a morbid moment of those unfortunate souls he had the ill luck of having dealt with succeeding a battle aboard the Indy- the way the dead’s waxen skin seemed to sustained what little was left of life in them until they grew cold utterly. A sudden fear seized his heart and he placed his hand gently before her mouth and nose, relieved to feel the mild caress of her exhalation against his calloused palm.

Before he could snatch them away, Mary stirred, catching his slender digits between her own and pressing them to her full lips; a smile graced her face, one that spoke of pleasant dreaming and happy awakenings. Her eyes fluttered open and she regarded Horatio so tenderly, he was compelled to lean forward and kiss her pretty mouth, almost as if testing she were real and not a arousing figment of amiable slumber; she tasted of spicery and of sex.

Letting out a small noise of disapproval, she burrowed deeply into the bedcovers, voicing wordlessly her dislike of the growing chill. Without thinking it through properly, Horatio acted on instinct, and with his first thought to protect her, he all of a sudden leapt from the bed in hopes of rekindling the hearth flame with wood from the tinderbox. Trying to conceal his blatant nakedness, he attempted to take a blanket, gathered at his groin, with him, only serving to unexpectedly roll Mary and unceremoniously toss her off the other side of the mattress.

Horrified, Horatio felt the blood rise in his cheeks to the tips of his ears as he gathered her nightdress quickly from where it had been discarded on the floor and rushed to wrap her in it; his heart skipped a beat when he realized what at first he thought were the sounds of her sobbing was actually laughter bubbling from her irrepressibly. “Oh, Horatio,” she chuckled, brushing away the gauzy night-thing in his grasp, “that silly affair will provide me no warmth; that was not what it was chosen for!”

Horatio grinned bashfully, lifting her and placing her back among the sheets carefully, lying beside her as to keep her bare flesh warm with his own. Blood was rushing towards other regions of his body now, stretching and engorging his already fairly erect shaft. She felt it rise against her hip and giggled, telling him, “You think too much, Horatio!” Indeed, he had just been imagining nestling inside of her once more, sharing in her vitality, her esurient vigor; truly, she was more alive, he knew, than many he was familiar with who did not employ her condition! And she wanted to share it with him. He was no longer abashed or ashamed, nor did he feel wanton; he’d heard the word sensualist used several times, mostly with unfavorable insinuation, but he felt that Mary must truly be just that, the word just seemed to fit her. All his inhibitions were gone, lost to her enigmatic enchantment.

Her plush thighs parted at the merest of his touches: at the suggestion of the adoring brush of his fingertips, the plump flesh fell open to his stroke, surrendering to him the sweet treasure between. His fingers played with the swollen lips, delighting in the sensation of the feathery silver down that sparsely furred her sex before parting the little cleft to move inside. He had thought that he might have to wet his fingers, to oil her with his saliva in order to move freely against the silken skin but he found, much to his surprise and elation, that she was already quite moist in her wanting for him. One long, slender digit dipped into the bedewed folds, uncovering the taut button at the fore. He circled the stem in measured cadence with the ball of his thumb, creating gentle, delicious friction whilst his other fingers explored lower, probing her tight furrow before delving in up to his knuckles.

She let out a keening moan, which he quickly suppressed with the pressure of his mouth upon hers, and arched her back violently, throwing her head back upon the pillow in rapturous enjoyment. His entire hand was filled with her most endearing delights, knowing almost instinctively where to caress, where to fondle in order to make her mad with desire; and, from the sounds of wild abandon that were coming from deep within her throat, it was working. As her body surged against his, he felt the press of her voluptuous bosom upon his naked chest, her nipples abrading on his sweat slickened, muscular but lean breast.

Oh, he coaxed in her an ache so keen it made her want to weep and, indeed, he was pleasuring her so magnificently, she felt the swell of tears begin at the corners of her eyes. As it turned out, books cannot teach you everything and nothing could have prepared her for the actual sensations of making love: the feel of him, the scent of his musk, her craving for him. She gazed so lovingly into those perfectly lashed, sensuous brown eyes of his, at the sultry pout of his lips, yearning for him ever more severely. She drank deeply of his kisses, allowing him to savor the savage sounds of pleasance that breathlessly came from her mouth.

There was no need for haste, no urgency in his actions now; daybreak was lazily spreading across the sky as if it wanted naught but to rest its eyes for a few more hours, and she wouldn’t be missed for some time. His pressing necessity for release from the night before had been more than quenched. It seemed as though -as it often did amongst young lovers- that they had all the time in the world, that this magical moment, though in truth fleeting, would last forever.

He groaned, removing his fingers and raising them to his lips, the heavy fragrance of her nectar flooded his nostrils. The taste of her was unbearably delectable as he slowly licked the slick juices from his hand with the tip of his thick, pink tongue, regarding in fascination her enthralled expression as she watched him. He coated one tense nipple with the glistening cream of her spend and leisurely lapped at the distended nubbin, suckling both her abundant flesh and the tang of her private place from her breast.

He recalled from the night before an act so unspeakably sinful and wanton that, at first, he couldn’t be sure that it hadn’t been just another lascivious dream. But no, he remembered: he recollected the feel of her mouth enfolding his erect member, her lips and tongue devouring him with such innocence, it threatened to turn him half mad. He’d thrown back the covers to gaze down at the spectacle, look upon her as she concentrated on the intimate kiss, dragging the warmth of her mouth over him time and again. His hand had fisted in her hair, urging her on, compelling her to receive his mild thrusts without worry or harm; the bulbous head of his lengthening staff nestled so tenderly at the back of her throat.

She had brought him to crisis and had proceeded to do the most remarkable thing: as his moment was upon him, she did not draw her lips away, but instead imbibed of him, swallowing his burning torrent of sperm almost greedily. When she could take in no more, she removed her lips and placed them against the flat, convulsing sinew of his lower belly, covering the taut flesh with torrid kisses as his pearly shot continued to pump from him, cascading down those luscious, abundant breasts, anointing her with his fervent ejaculations. Captivated and stimulated like never before, Horatio brought the pliant mounds to his mouth, lapping and nursing his own piquant seed from them. Not in his most depraved of daydreams could he have imagined something so scrumptious. He reveled in his own debauchery, proudly noting how it had brought to bear in her a kindred passionate exhilaration.

He was wrenched from his carnal musings back to the present by the tantalizing perception of her darling tiny giggle, which touched his ears like euphony as she wriggled against him. He grinned at her, sinking into an open mouthed kiss as if he intended to devour her whole as his glorious cock nudged her stomach; its slightly curved, smooth length was now fully glutted to its true and fairly impressive extent. Luxuriating in this licentious, epicurean reality they had created for themselves, Mary perceived his hunger and readied herself for it, molding her lush, sonsie curves into his lean physique but it was not his rigid penis that found its way to her mount.

His fiery breath, coming in pants, cut a burning route across her cheeks to the scar at the side of her face, his lips and tongue following hotly its rosy path down along her jaw; nuzzling at the place where her pulse pounded a rapid love song, he made his way down the graceful arc of her neck. From there, he took up puckered line that ran from her shoulder, around the outside swell of her breast to the intersection of lines that crossed her stomach and womb; he did not neglect one with his libidinous kiss, leading to the groove of her left hip. She spread her thighs wide, opening herself to him, her respire coming in small, anticipatory gasps.

A wicked glint illuminated his glare, set it alight, as he pressed his succulent lips to her feminine petals, running his hot tongue along the seam. He used his thumbs to unfold the ambrosial blossom of her genitalia and, widening his generous mouth, he engulfed her completely with a full, ravishing kiss. The rough velvet of his tongue took her in long, luscious laps as she felt his lips contract against her vulnerable flesh rhythmically, suckling her sex deeply.

“Oh, Horatio!” she cried, folding her legs about his neck and shoulders, frantically seeking purchase with her palms against the low backboard, curling her fingernails into the soft, rough hewn wood as she tried to anchor herself to something tangible, solid, in a realm of delectation that threatened to wholly consume her. As they tightened around her, his lips smacked loudly in their suction against her tender, dripping skin. Vociferously and with relish, he gulped down the slippery, molten tribute to his glorious succor flooding from her core.

She was quivering beneath him, whimpering as the purest form of delight threatened to overwhelm her, kittenish, playful, almost virtuous in her bliss; he was aware of the power of his own need, his hands shaking violently. His cock throbbed for want of attention and he was loath to ignore it, even if it meant ceasing his soft, scrumptious ministrations. His mouth and chin were lush with the juices of her satisfaction as he moved back up her body and pressed his lips to hers; she sipped her own flavor from his tongue delicately.

She believed she knew what to expect though Horatio had proven himself on more than one occasion splendidly unpredictable; she let out a small squeak of surprise when she felt his large, powerful hands grip her and compel her first onto her side and then onto her stomach. Brushing aside the long, satin threads of her platinum hair, he tasted of her flesh from shoulders to buttocks before settling atop her, his eager phallus wedging itself in the split of her backside before sliding lower, its bulbous head nudging at her coyly parted lips. “Oh, Horatio,” she moaned. It seemed to Mary that words, which had always come so naturally, had began to fail her right from the moment he had touched her naked flesh. How could she possibly express to him what he was doing to her, how it was making her feel? Those words did not exist in any text she had ever read and so she spoke few but from the heart. “I want you, I want you inside of me again!”

If Horatio hadn’t already been inflamed to the point of ardent delirium, the small statement would have successfully brought him there itself. Shifting his lean hips so they snuggled perfectly betwixt her milky, luxurious thighs and, positioning himself, he commenced what seemed like a torturously slow invasion. Her ecstasy took her to the edge of agony as he filled her inch by abundant inch until he was until he was riding deep inside her pulsating sheath.

They shared an intoxicated mutual sigh and a shudder as he settled atop her, sinking his weapon into her most luscious regions as he enveloped her in his strong embrace, kissing her flushed cheek, the corner of her mouth. His thrusts were measured, deliberate, meant to prolong their pleasure if only to watch her lips separate, her blonde eyelashes flutter like butterfly’s wings over her lucid brown-green eyes every time he pushed inwards, taking possession of her charms completely. Lovely!

Unlike Mary, Horatio had never relied on words, had never been entirely at ease with them as a form of profound communication; he let his actions speak for him and, right then, they were doing so intensely. All those things he had wished he could give voice to, all of those romantic and lustful sentiments: he was certain Mary knew by now.

Mary couldn’t help but let out a giddy giggle, pushing her soft bottom into the snug cradle of his hips, followed by two little gasps escaping her parted mouth, the second escalating in emotion: “Ah, AH!” Understanding the spontaneous -and perhaps a bit uncommon- reaction impulsively, Horatio grinned and gave a little chuckle of his own, a savage groan ripped from his throat proceeding the outburst which reverberated through both their responsive bodies, tickling at the growing flames in their bellies. His breath quickened with his rhythm, his lunges becoming more and more urgent. Wrapping his arm around her shoulder, he buried his face in the nape of her neck, kissing and licking at the salty skin as he allowed the exaltation of transport to move his limbs, to drive his turgid prick.

The delightfully new and daring angle of his penetration meant that his member was stroking places inside of Mary, deliciously delicate places along her narrow, sleek hollow, irresistible points that, at the lightest of caresses, had the power to send a charge of bliss throughout her; warmth was spreading from her stomach -from the blooming flame licking at her womb to the spot where she could feel the bulging helmet of his shaft snuggle inside of her. All at once, it was released, consuming her in waves of ravishment and culmination. His consummation followed shortly after; she could feel the explosion of his seed spilling into her once and over again with the insistent press of his muscular build. Grunting, he spent his last and together they lay in the other’s reverential clasp, the exquisite torment of fulfillment bringing on total tranquility.

After a time, Horatio mustered what strength was left in him and rolled onto his back, taking her with him so that she lay against his heaving chest. Nestling into him, her wicked mouth and tongue teased his flat, dusky nipple as her palm made lazy circles against his rising and falling belly. He touched her face, kissing her forehead as he came to realized the most extraordinary thing: for the first time since he had met her mere days ago, she was warm; her skin was radiating heat.

*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*

“Oh, how sweet!” Mary exclaimed, her hands busy twisting her silver hair and tying it at the crown of her head in a sloppy but efficient bun. She leaned over to regard a little carved gourd, looking the grinning, crooked-toothed jack o’lantern that sat on the kitchen table in the hollow eye. It seemed to stare amiably back at her. “Come, Jack,” she said, placing the pumpkin in the palm of her hand, “let’s find you a candle, hmm?”

“Ham brought him over,” Stephen informed her as he folded the morning standard and set it down next to his breakfast plate; he couldn’t help but notice with a smirk his son’s disorderly appearance and his somewhat flustered demeanor as he took a seat beside Dr. Hornblower at the table. Nor could he ignore Mary’s robust cheer--not that it was an unusual thing though she seemed to have just a touch more of a bounce to her step. He cocked an amused eyebrow at Horatio, who failed to acknowledge his father’s knowing glare. The younger man cleared his throat, making excuses for the disheveled sight of himself, blaming it on a ‘restless night.’ Indeed, thought Stephen--is that what they called it? In his day, it was the ‘bed-breaking exuberance of youth.’

“Well, you best clean yourself up before tonight, boy,” the elder Hornblower gave a loud ‘har-rum,’ opening the paper again and studying it, adjusting his bifocals. “Joseph seemed quite enthusiastic about some to do at the Duke and Duchess of Granby’s estate, a fancy gathering of some kind.”

Mary exited the larder, holding in her hand the stump of a sturdy candle and staring at Stephen incredulously. “My father?” she sought confirmation for the dumbfounding statement. “My father, Joseph Frank? Enthusiastic about the Danbys’ Hallows’ Eve ball? Are you quite sure you have the right man?” she queried only half teasing, her brow furrowing as the information slowly settled over her. “Gaunt, tall, champion of progress?”

Stephen laughed merrily. “Yes, that would be him!” Mary felt dizzy, confused, as she slowly sank into a chair; Joseph had never let her attend a party, let alone one as massively popular as the Danbys’ annual Hallowe’en ball. Could he have had a change of heart? Perchance seeing his old friend had done him more good than even she had predicted. Barely daring to hope, let alone breathe, she asked if he intended for her to accompany them. “Why, of course,” Stephen replied earnestly, somewhat baffled by her reaction. “We wouldn’t be leaving you behind, would we? He was raving about the whole affair this morning, when he’d returned from Mr. Faulkner’s farm.”

This served only to bewilder Mary further, though now a suspicious gleam was creeping into her eyes -a distrustful skepticism. This was not like Joseph, not like him at all. He was planning something. And to be out and about before she had the opportunity to nag him about staying all night in his basement sanctuary, to fix him his meal, to dress him? “He left the cellar this morning? Before I awoke?”

“Indeed,” maintained Stephen, his puzzlement mounting. “Seemed Faulkner had some trouble with the neighborhood youth last night; egging the windows and frightening the livestock, that sort of thing. Joseph simply went to lend his assistance. That jolly fellow,” he indicated the jack o’lantern, “was a gift of thanks from Ham.” Ah, so Tobias was involved. Now she knew he was planning something, though she could not for the life of her guess at what. No matter, it was a dangerous game to be sure, if she knew anything of her “father.”

She forced herself to quit worrying the corner of her bottom lip with her pearly teeth, shaking off her suddenly dire mood. “In that case, I suppose I should make ready,” she said brightly though Stephen could still detect the hesitancy in her conduct. She lit the candle and placed it inside Jack’s recessed head, looking pleased as his features began to glow with a soft orange light; even if her spirits had been dampened, she enjoyed such a simple pleasure. “Quite nice,” she smiled approvingly.

She handed it to Horatio, who received it rather awkwardly, and resisted the urge to kiss his inviting mouth. He returned her grin, observing at last that her familiarly wan skin was still enkindle with a rosy blush; it had not faded, the delightful consequence of their tender love making. Their fingers touched--not an accident on Mary’s behalf--and he was aroused once again with the warmth of her.

*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*

Her bed chamber was in a distressing state of disorder: though her bedcovers lay conspicuously undisturbed, someone had blatantly been rooting around in her small dresser and the perfumed boxes filled with trinkets, jewelry and what-nots that rested upon its top board. Joseph, damn him! A keen sense of indignation rose in her as she surveyed the room; he must have been through whilst she slept beside Horatio. And, from the disorder he’d left behind, he was obviously disapproving of her absence. How dare he? She’d made certain things quite clear to him recently but it was obvious that he would not listen; it was no longer of any consequence to him whom she chose to bed.

Furiously shoving the frocks and under things back into the drawers, she noticed a solitary object that seemed to have been laid out with the distinct intention of catching her attention. Carefully, she lifted the miniature of Emma, painted on ivory and threaded with a silver and blue ribbon into her wary grasp. Emma, the woman whose likeness Mary seemed eternally doomed to share. Innocent, darling, dead Emma.

In a fit of rage, Mary nearly crushed the fragile thing in her fist and, without warning, hurled it at the wall, watching in smug satisfaction as the delicate shell all but shattered. No more, she thought; soon, no more. She’d be as gone as Emma and there was little he could do to prevent it.


	5. Chapter 5

It was Horatio who was feeling a bit forgotten come evening when Tobias Faulkner, at the reigns of a modest--though, most likely, what was in truth his most elegant--carriage, pulled up in front of the Grange to retrieve Miss frank and the good doctor and escort them to the Danbys’ ball. The gig departed sooner than the Hornblowers had an opportunity to protest, hollow apologies and explanations still resounding in their ears like the piercing echo of the lightning storm that had moved in shortly before the yellowing dusk. A crackling flash of light broke the sky and, for one instant, froze the scene in its harsh illumination: Mary’s concerned face peering back at him, Frank’s arm cruelly gripping hers.

As quickly as it had come, it faded, leaving only strange imprints of specters dancing in front of Horatio’s eyes as the world vanished once again into blackness. He turned his gaze from the drive and started after his father, who, muttering to himself, had gone in search of a cart Frank had mentioned as he had been carried away with not so much as a glance backwards at his guests; the wagon supposedly occupied the disused carriage house and a weary, aged horse with a clumsy gait and slumped back sat in the stables waiting to reluctantly head it up.

Suspicions and doubts about his father’s old friend and his relationship with his “daughter” had began to creep around the edges of Horatio’s perception as his mood darkened. It would have been nigh impossible to have overlooked--or escaped, for that matter, in the claustrophobic confines of the Grange--the heated argument that had broken out between them in the library that afternoon. Even Victor had seemed agitated by the commotion as one could hear in between the furious exchanges of words the frantic beat of his tiny wings against the gilt bars of his cage. Even now, he could hear the bird’s eerie, mournful song; it was a soft warbling that Horatio was averse to recall was considered a portent of death.

He should not ought to have endeavored to listen in but nor could he pretend as if he were deaf to the angry cries when he surmised his nocturnal gamboling with Mary to be the cause of the noisy quarrel in the first place. He would not shirk his responsibility in the affair nor, he knew, could he excuse his behavior though he would never apologize for it, even if it seemed the honorable thing to do. But Frank had seemed little concerned with Horatio’s conduct, neither, distressingly, did he seem to express a desire to protect Mary from what should have seemed intolerable iniquity on a young man’s--his guest’s--behalf! Instead, Horatio had overheard him hurl words at her like hussy and whore; it had revolted him, the disrespect he had shown her.

His misgivings only grew when he started to consider the night before and the state of Mary’s innocence. Surely she had believed truly that she had been a maiden, that was not even an uncertainty, and Horatio had never lain with a virgin before so his own understanding of such matters was limited. He did know, however, that her body’s protest should have been more vehement; not every woman reacted the same, and for some it was mild indeed, but there was always blood, if only the smallest rush of the crimson liquid. Mary had shed none. She had been virtuously tight but that fragile membrane of chaste flesh had either been mercifully yielding or absent completely. Could he even conceive of giving voice to his abhorrent notions that clouded his mind, that Frank’s bonds with his adopted daughter had been less than parental?

A hasty, muffled curse and a whoop of triumph led Horatio to his father and indicated that, in the dim glow of the dilapidated carriage house’s lantern, he had managed to harness the horse to the cart single-handedly. He was understandably reluctant to share his fears with the elder Hornblower until an acrimonious comment from Stephen concerning the change in his old acquaintance’s character gave him the courage to broach the subject. “He is not truly her papa, you know,” the younger said, clearing his throat as his own father pulled him with graceful effortlessness up unto the seat of the cart. “He took her in when her mother passed away.”

Little did his son know, but Dr. Hornblower had been brooding himself over their host’s treatment of Mary, a bit sore with himself for not intervening to defend the hapless girl. “I suspected as much,” he answered, clicking his tongue and giving the horse a nudge with a flick of the reigns; they began to trot off at a tolerably casual pace. Lightning once again tore across the sky like a snap of the whip, momentarily lighting their way; Stephen hoped he still remembered the roads of Providence as well as he used to, especially shrouded in this chilled darkness as they were. “He treats her...”

“Like his slave,” Horatio finished cuttingly, his stomach twisting into a knot of fury at the thought of it for, if he was correct, she was made to do much more than serve him supper and fold his clothes.

“Not like any daughter of his, that is for certain,” replied Stephen thoughtfully. “Ah,” he exclaimed suddenly as an orange flicker began to grow in the distance ahead of them, revealing itself as a torch as they passed, “we have not lost our way after all.” They traveled by many such flaming posts until they felt the gravel of the Danbys’ drive and the soft glow of many lights shimmering from the many grand windows of the Duke’s manse.

Stacks of harvest hay decorated the entrance to the great hall along with many blazing jack o’ the lanterns made from American pumpkins and other such gourds. The din of polite conversation was already growing merrier with the free flowing spirits and Horatio took a mug of hot cider that was thrust into his hand as he made his way through the crowd. His father had abandoned him in order to speak with the local vicar and his wife and now he scanned the mass of bodies for any sign of Mary. The whole place smelled of apples and spice; it was a bit overwhelming and Horatio’s head took a bit of a spin.

He reached the banquet table, on which was laid a feast that could have probably fed all of Providence for a week, and laid his mug down upon the polished surface, pushing the cider away. He wasn’t much for social gatherings and the music and loud revelry was starting to grate on his nerves; perhaps if he could just find Mary or take a breath of fresh air in the garden...

He was unexpectedly accosted by a jovial young man as he turned to head for the door; the youthful gentleman seemed to have had a bit too much of tipple though he was not yet drunk. “You’re the Hornblower lad, aren’t you? A naval hero, if the tarts of the village are to be believed,” said the new arrival cheerfully. Horatio became suddenly aware of large groups of young ladies watching him whispering and giggling when he turned their way; perchance wearing his uniform had not been prudent although the prideful part of him was rather enjoying the attention.

“I am in His Majesty’s Royal Navy, yes,” he replied with a bit of satisfaction in his voice. Oh, he supposed he’d have to socialize with the boy now. “Horatio Hornblower,” he introduced himself. “Have we met before?”

“Ah, once when we were but boys. Daniel, Daniel Gardener,” he offered Horatio his hand and shook it forcefully. “I do remember your mother; she was a kind soul. Sad, that. Of course, moreso for you than for me but a sorrow nonetheless.” Horatio nodded and thanked him, expecting to be let free but Daniel was having none of it; he blocked Horatio’s route. “S’pose you’ve heard about the killings? They all talk of it. Well, it about the only thing to talk about ‘round these parts. Not like London or Plymouth; bloody Providence.”

“I have heard,” Horatio confirmed politely, eyeing the exit to the gardens. “They caught the murderous villain, did they not?”

“The foreigner?” scoffed Daniel. “I reckon they *think* they found the fiend. I spoke with him on several occasions; never seemed the type to me. It’s all the bias of a small town, you see; it couldn’t have been one of them, or so they figure, so they hang the poor gent who can barely speak the King’s English enough to defend himself. And there was the manner of the slayings; twas a demoniacal mind that did *that* to those innocent girls. They don’t talk about it, the way those misses were found.” He placed a finger upon his breast bone and ran it in a straight line down to the top of his crotch. “Split down the middle, is what I heard, opened. There some says some where missing, the insides, that is.”

Horatio felt decidedly ill now and was desperately looking for a way to escape. It was then that he caught the eye of Faulkner, who was glaring at him with now open contempt. Frank stood by his side, ever talking with him, ever feeding his suspicions. The mirthful assemblage of party-goers was closing in on him now and he cared no more for formality. He pardoned himself rather abruptly and briskly walked away.

When a hand caught his arm to halt him, he believed it to be a very persistent Daniel and turned dourly to once again bid the gentleman a goodnight only to find himself face to face with a delicately smiling Mary. His expression softened immediately and the cruel words he was about to speak died upon his lips. “I am so very glad to have found you!” she declared and his tenderness quickly turned to concern when he realized she was on the edge of tears. “I am...not used to so many people all at once!” she explained as he gently rested his fingertips upon her cheek. “Come, let us flee!”

She took his hand, dodging and weaving gracefully through the chattering mass of people who hardly noticed their passing until they reached the garden doors. The chill autumn air rushed up upon Horatio’s face and he breathed it deeply as lightning shot across the blue black sky. Mary led him further than the cobblestoned terrace, past the flora that was just beginning its winter nap and down across the lawn towards the old mill. By the crumbling building she finally took pause, turning to Horatio and wrapping her arms around his waist, drawing him into her embrace. He, in turn, encircled her in his slender but strong arms, stealing a kiss from her soft pink lips.

“I am so very sorry,” she told him, laying her forehead against his mouth, “about Mr. Faulkner and the carriage. It was a terrible thing to do! My papa is cross with me for I told him so and in front of Toby as well! I would rather have sat in the bed of a pig cart with you than have ridden in Toby’s finest rig!”

He took her face in his hands, slowly tipping it upwards until he could gaze into her eyes, stroking her jaw with his long thumbs. “It is not for you to apologize,” he murmured. “Poor Mary, I know not what debt you owe Frank, but you can get away from him. Run, run to anywhere, live out your short life without him! You are no nightjar caught up in a ornamented cage.”

“I wish to speak of this no more,” she said firmly, almost bitterly. Soon, soon Frank would have to let her go, be free in death, for a promise he made and swore to. She kissed him once more, letting the velvet tip of her tongue tantalizingly skirt his lower lips. “This is what is important,” she whispered seductively.

His hands strayed somehow to her breasts, feeling that abundant plushness, the hardening nubs at their peaks. “I love it when you touch me,” she sighed blissfully, nuzzling his ear. Her fingers slipped between their entwined bodies and found, to their mild surprise, that his masculine shaft was already quite firm and straining against the fabric of his britches. It responded quite favorably to her touch as she caressed its erect extent. “I want to take you in my mouth,” she cooed huskily. “Like I did last night, I want to taste you, run my tongue along your length, suckle you until you...” His groan muffled the last of her words as he buried his face in her silver-blonde; was that the lightning or the pounding of his own heart thundering in his ears.

“So,” a venomous, accusatory voice boomed, breaking the spell between the two young lovers. They both turned to see Tobias Faulkner standing behind them, his eyes narrow with loathing and contempt. “What Frank has told me is true: you dare defile this virtuous gentlewoman with your... perversions!” he incriminated Horatio.

“Toby, please!” Mary implored of him. “I do not know what my father has told you, but this is not what it seems to be. Just be calm and listen!”

“Listen to the poison he,” he spat at Horatio, “has fed you? You, sir, are the lowest, most reprehensible creature I have ever come across.” Toby drew a pistol from his frock coat. Mary screamed for him to stop as he raised the gun and aimed. Horatio launched himself at the misguided young man, intending only to disarm him. The two struggled for possession of the weapon as Mary shouted for help; she began to gasp, clutching at her breast. A feeling of light headedness was coming over her now.

A flash of ignited gunpowder and a muted explosion as the two men stilled. Tobias’ eyes were wide with detestation and alarm, then pain, as he slowly slid to the ground. Desperately, Horatio knelt at his side, trying to staunch the bleeding of Faulkner’s stomach wound with his hands. He was about to call to Mary to retrieve assistance when he noticed she was swaying on her feet. He had only time to call her name in dismay before she collapsed to the damp grass. Her heart just could not withstand the excitement and the fear.

By then, a small group had wandered from the party having heard Mary’s plea for aid, all gasping and murmuring quietly. Stephen forced his way through the onlookers, stopping dead in his tracks as he took in the scene before him, the blood on his son’s hands and clothes in copious amounts. “Good God!” he cried. Frank appeared at his side, a look of profound strangeness shading his expression.

Horatio was holding Mary’s limp body in his arms, rocking her back and forth, when he looked up amid a shower of hot tears and spotted Joseph. “You,” he growled viciously, “this is your fault! You orchestrated this! To what end I do not know but may you burn in hell for it!”

“He is distraught,” Frank dismissed Horatio’s spiteful words. Come, we must bring both of them back to the Grange. I might yet be able to save them. Quickly now!”

*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*

The morning hours were upon them though dawn had yet to stretch her rosy fingers against the starless sky. The lightning was coming more frequently now though not one among those gathered in the Grange’s parlor seemed to notice. Stephen sat awkwardly next to his son, ashamed by his thoughts of relief that it had not been Horatio and completely unaware of how to comfort the young man. The elder Hornblower took his offspring’s hand in his own and gripped it tightly, silently willing him to have strength. He only wished there was more he could do; what good was being a genteel physician when you were completely helpless to save two innocent lives? Ham stood in the corner, turning his worn hat in his hands as his wife stood by his side.

Finally, Frank appeared. He looked exhausted, his skin blanched and dark circles surrounded his eyes. His hands were soaked to the elbows with blood as was his white apron and parts of his pants and shirt sleeves. Grimly, he hung his head, shaking it back and forth woefully. There was no need for spoken word, the message was clear enough.

Anger erupted within Horatio and he hurled himself at Frank, grabbing him by the collar and shaking the timid man hard. “Your fault!” he yelled over and over, tears streaming down his burning cheeks. “Your fault, your fault, your fault!” It took both Stephen and Ham to dislodge him from Joseph, his father trying to calm him until at last Horatio was still and stoic with sorrow.

An hour later, Horatio made his way to the library and unlatched the window. Opening the nightjar’s elegant cage, he set the creature free. Doctor Hornblower and his son departed Providence the very next day. His father slept soundly against his shoulder but Horatio could find no rest. A distinct feeling of unease seemed to have followed him and would plague him for many nights to come.


	6. Chapter 6

A heart beat.

And then another.

Another. An even, healthy rhythm. A gasping breath as eyesight came into focus. Lungs hurting from the effort; in and out, in and out.

A rasping voice, unused to its own sound. “How long?”

Joseph Frank looked up, his spectacles balancing on the edge of his nose in the dim, cold light of his cellar laboratory. “Rest,” he said dismissively, turning away again to study the anatomy chart laid out before him on his desk. “You are still recovering.”

“You’ve no idea,” Mary grunted, struggling to lift herself, to prop her torso up on her elbows. “How long?” she asked through gritted teeth, swinging her legs over the side of the surgery table, almost falling to her knees as she tried to stand but catching the edge of the operative bed before she hit the floor. “How long have I been dead?” she demanded.

He sighed as if the very idea of explaining it to her was tedium itself. “You were dead for about an hour before I was able to transfer the heart of our dear departed Mr. Faulkner and revive you. It’s been two weeks since; I’ve kept you functioning with my lightning apparatuses until you could run on your own.”

“You speak as if I were one of your devices,” she spat out as she walked unsteadily into what at first seemed like the blinding light of the burning lamps’ glow. “I am not.” She realized she was naked and looked down at her body, at the deep, stitched gash that ran the length between her breasts. She pressed her fingers to her flesh, searching for more such incisions; bosom, stomach, face. No, he never touched her face in fear of ruining her perfect image. She began to cry, clawing at her breastbone over the place her newly received organ, Toby’s heart, kept continual steady tempo until the skin was raw. “You promised,” she accused him mournfully. “You promised no more killings.”

“And that promise I kept,” he reminded her, shrugging casually. “No innocent was harmed by my own hand. Twas your own Mr. Hornblower who caused Tobias’ demise.”

“You,” it was spoken as a condemnation. “You coordinated everything! And what a master conductor you were! What lies did you whisper to Tobias? That you would give him my hand in matrimony?” She scoffed. “What deceit did you sow the seeds of concerning Horatio? That he had ravished me against my will? The virtuous, naive soul who fell victim to a lonely naval officer’s insatiable appetites! That you were helpless to stop him? Perhaps he held me captive! Ah me, shall I swoon?”

“Enough!” Frank yelled, his voice echoing off the stone walls of the confined space as he pounded his fist against the hard wood of his desk. “You must calm yourself, Emma,” he panted, struggling to do the same himself. “This strain could do you an injury. Your state...”

“I am not Emma,” replied Mary fiercely. “Emma is dead; she has been these six long years for it was not she whom you brought back, nor was it I, or the person that I am now at any rate. You killed her, do you remember? I do not for I have not her memories. Or rather I possess them but by another’s voice, as if they were told to me long ago. But you remember, don’t you? You remember the day you went to her house to propose marriage when she told you she’d had the babe, your babe cut from her belly, cast from her womb.”  
“Stop,” Frank implored of her. “Please.”

But Mary’s capacity for mercy, for pity, had run dry. “She wanted nothing more to do with you, you did nothing but sully her reputation. You tried to embrace her and she pushed you away; that’s when it started. Your hands were around her neck, you were shaking her. Hard. She begged of you, she begged you to stop but you knew not what you were doing, such was your rage. Not until she collapsed lifeless in your arms did you understand what you had done. And then you cried for her, you made this abomination in her person. Emma is merely a previous tenant of this vessel.”

“Lies! You are trying to goad me!” grunted Frank.

“No, Joseph,” she replied, stumbling as she slowly strode towards him. “I am telling you the truth as you seem not capable to abide it. Did it even matter to you which was killed: Tobias or Horatio?” She could only glare at him with utter disdain when he did not answer her. “Doctor Hornblower was your dearest friend; you would so easily sacrifice his son? Have you become so brainsick that it has come to that? What if one had shot the other through the heart, what then?”

“They were both gentlemen of high ideals; I believed correctly that either would only aim to wound, to defend themselves, not to kill.”

“No,” she laughed mirthlessly, “that was *your* intention. And what if it had gone awry, what if the unwitting donor had been killed? Would it have been another hapless village girl?”

“Do you wish now that I had let you die?” he snapped in retort.

“You don’t understand, do you? I am dead, I’ve always been dead from the day you murdered Emma. I’ve been so cold. But... I’m not anymore.” She looked away, her eyes staring unseeingly into the darkness as she placed a hand upon her voluptuously rounded tummy. There was warmth within her, a light in her gaze.

“No,” she recognized suddenly, surprisingly herself with the answer. An unexpected, soft grin spread across her face and she laughed dryly. “No, it’s different now though not by your hand! For Horatio has done what you could not. All those girls you slaughtered, retrieving what was necessary for me to continue to live but also defiling them, their wombs, when the fault was never in me or them. It was you. You see, Horatio has done what you have never succeeded at: I feel even now his seed taking root. His babe is ripening within my belly.”

“Impossible!” insisted Frank, snarling. “You’re mine, you’ve always been mine. My Emma, it is my child!” Mary, still smiling her secretive smile, only shook her head, not troubling herself to turn her eyes towards him; he knew the truth of it. She bit her lips and laughed again, cupping her stomach in her hands as she looked down upon it.

“I was never yours,” she spoke as if nothing he told her now could make a whit of a difference. “You would have me dependant, subservient to you on my hands and knees. And I was, like a bird all their life lived in a cage. I do believe I might have once loved you but you can keep me locked away no longer. I won’t allow it, not for me, not for my child.”

“You’ve no choice in the matter!” Frank yelled. “What if you are ill, how will they know to treat you? You know nothing of the world, the cruelness, the depravity. You cannot care for yourself. Stay with me, my Emma; you are as a nestling and I your teacher. I could be your lover, father to your child! You will not survive without me!”

“That is what you hold to. And there was a time it was true but these last days, when I believed myself to be on the threshold of the great beyond, twas compassion and pity for this hollow man you have become that kept me by your side. There was a fear of the truth in your threats and an innocent loyalty that stayed my departure. I did hope that a visit from you closest friend might spark what is left of humanity in you, but it did not. That has been spent now and I shall depart.”

“The Hornblower boy thinks you dead! He attended your service, your funeral rites. I was told they were lovely, very moving; I did not attend as I clearly had business here. We buried an ewe in your stead, it gave heft to the coffin. Would he take back in his arms a dead woman, do you think? Your Hornblower man? A woman he held as the last of her life drained from her? Whose deceased body he cradled all the way back to the Grange even as you went cold in his embrace? ‘Oh, darling,’” he mocked, “‘I’ve miraculously risen from the grave with your brat in my belly!’ No? You’ve no place to go,” he sneered smugly.

“I have everywhere to go,” said Mary. “Everything to see.”

“I won’t let you,” he threatened, turning his back to her as his hands curled into brutal fists. “I am superior in strength; I will keep you here with force if necessary. And once the babe is born, we will be a family as was always intended, my Emma! You will not go, I will never allow it! If I am damned, so help me, I will take you to Hell at my side!” In an instant of hurried motion, Joseph found he could not breath and his voice did not work save for one hoarse croak that drew blood from his mouth. His lungs were working but he could not find the air and, as he sputtered and reached for his neck, he felt the scalpel protruding from his flesh on either side. He crumpled to the floor, still reaching in despair for her: his Emma, his virginal Mary.

“Then give my regards to Lucifer himself. Forgive me, father,” she lowered the hand she had used to thrust the medical instrument into him, “I know now what I do.” The black overtook him and, for the first time, it was his turn to understand what it was to die.


	7. Epilogue

Archie’s cheeks were flushed with the cold as he smiled broadly, catching sight of Horatio. He closed the door to the inn behind him and bounded towards his friend across the busy street in downtown Portsmouth.

“There you are, ‘Ratio!” he laughed. “I was expecting you a week earlier! You’ll never be able to guess what happened over Hallowtide!” he declared and Horatio thought wryly quite the same of his comrade. “You remember that girl I spoke of, the one I wanted you to meet?”

“Mm?” Horatio said distractedly. “Oh, yes, the very _agreeable_ one. Aileen was her name?”

“Elaine,” Archie corrected. “Honestly, ‘Ratio, sometimes I don’t know where your head is.” He grinned wickedly. “But I know where mine has been!” Kennedy then proceeded to launch into a most sordid tale of several amorous engagements he’d had in the company of his young lady that would have made some of the junior officers aboard the Indefatigable blush. Oh dear, Horatio wasn’t quite sure that one was rather safe or that this one even physically possible! They’d entered a tavern, stomping the first of the freshly falling snow from their boots as they warmed themselves by the roaring hearth fire. Archie’s lusty narrative continued as they found a table at the back and sat themselves down.

They’d finished their drinks and were heading towards the boarding house Horatio had taken room in when Kennedy’s yarn at last came to an end. Horatio wasn’t sure he believed half of it but it made for an exciting listen nonetheless though it only served to, in some places, remind him... “And what of you, ‘Ratio?” Archie asked, giving his friend a nudge with his elbow. “Was your leave in Providence eventful?”

“No,” lied Horatio flatly. “No, it wasn’t eventful at all.”

“Well, that’s to be expected,” Archie carried on, “in such a small town. Though I do imagine there was a comely country chit or two? A buxom milkmaid perhaps?” But Horatio’s attention had been drawn elsewhere and he was staring intensely into the crowd that bustled along the busy avenue. “What is it, ‘Ratio? What...” But his companion had already taken off at a hasty pace; Archie ran after him. He finally caught up with his shipmate at the mouth of an alley between a bakery stand and a millinery. He was panting as he rested his hands upon his knees; Horatio’s legs were longer if not necessarily stronger and had carried him farther in a shorter amount of time. “What did you see, ‘Ratio?”

“I thought...for a moment,” Horatio attempted to explain still searching the area with his eyes. “A familiar face but it could not have been.” He shook his head sadly. “No, no, it could not have been.”

“Common mistake,” Archie said jovially, slapping his friend upon the back. “Now, come, I feel as if my nose will freeze!” Horatio nodded and the two slowly departed.

Mary watched as they left, a half of her wanting to run to Horatio and throw herself into his arms while the other reminded her of why it could not be so. She placed her hand upon her belly, which was now beginning to protrude slightly and smiled. “Your father,” she told the barely detectable bulge. “He is an honorable man. Perhaps one day, you will find out for yourself.” With that, she pulled the lace-lined hood of her cloak closer about her face with a gloved hand and walked off anonymously into the hustle of the busy seaport afternoon.  
The End


End file.
